I picked up the phone and called her. I tell ya, my whole body was shaking. And I was a grown woman in her fifties! I didn’t scream. I didn’t yell. But I wanted to know what this was all about.
“Does Kathy do anything to cause it? Not do her homework, maybe? Because she’s doing it here at home every night.”
“No.”
“Is she bad? Does she sass you?”
“No.”
This sister had no excuse, and she barely tried to defend herself. She was just apparently one of those nuns who, if they can bully you, they will. There are people like that. That just makes me furious. Well, I told this nun in no uncertain terms, “You are a disgrace to the sisterhood. You should never have been a nun, and if this doesn’t stop, I’m going much higher than this.”
How could you let a nun bully this cute little girl?
When I hung up the phone, I was still trembling. My hands were just quivering. I was ready to cry. Nowadays it seems like all parents do is blame teachers for whatever’s going wrong with their kids, but what I did with that phone call then was going against my own personality, against everything I’d been taught. I just thought, you can’t treat my Kathy like that, or any of my kids. That’s the bottom line. It was so unfair, what this woman did.
Later, I asked Kathy about it. “How’s Sister so-and-so treating you?”
“She’s okay” was all I got.
She never complained about it, which I find very odd. I often wonder if what happened with that nun maybe traumatized her a little bit. But at least I found out from other kids that the nun never said one more word to Kathy. In the end, I must say I was so pleased with myself. I felt like a good mom! It also let me know that in certain situations, questioning authority doesn’t have to be a bad thing. In that instance, I changed for the better.
[P.S. I can now reveal the nun’s name. Sister Mary Elizabeth Oprah Winfrey. Thanks, Mom!]
Places They Won’t Find Your Body for Days
There are certain places on this planet that should be avoided at all costs, especially after ten o’clock. If you ever visit one of these Bermuda Triangles of everyday life and something happens to you, prepare to be lost until they broadcast the discovery of your lifeless body on the news, most likely with your underpants showing. These are places I’ve always warned my children about; now, I can warn you, too, readers.
Any wooded area
The car of a stranger or someone you just met
Beaches, lakes, swamps, basically any body of water, including the public pool
Parks, parking lots, and parketerias
That fancy new mall everyone is talking about
Any and all parties or rock-and-roll concerts
Fraternities and sororities, no thank you!
Your “friend’s” house
I Have Other Kids Besides Kathy, Part 4
My youngest son, John Maurice, was the kind of likable, sweet kid who threw himself heart and soul into whatever he was into, and it was adorable. His ability to fixate on things came as a blessing one time when he was really young and got a jelly bean stuck way up his nose. He was all panicky, naturally, and I called the local police because they were really friendly and helpful about that kind of thing. They wanted to drive him to the station and see if one of the firemen—whose station was right next door to the policemen’s—could get it out. Well, all the trauma went away as soon as JM noticed the machine gun in the cop car. You’d have thought nothing else happened that day after we got back home.
“Ma, did you see that machine gun? It was so big!”
I thought that was pretty cute.
Like his roller-skating, which he started up in grammar school at St. Bernardine’s and got completely wrapped up in. All the kids loved it, really. JM would go to the rink all the time. Then he decided he was going to operate his own rink in our basement.
My youngest son, John Maurice, looking happy at the beach in Saugatuck.
Our basement had a concrete floor, and it was pretty large, which meant kids could skate around in that space easily. Then we gave him a little record player so he could play music. Well, pretty soon, when his love of roller-skating was in full swing, he started making signs to put up, as if he were running his own roller-skating operation!
He made a sign that said ALL SKATE and he’d have it up, even if there was nobody else around but him! Then he’d skate around—he was really good at it—and maybe after that he’d announce, “Okay, now, couples only!” And then he’d have a COUPLES ONLY sign ready to go.
It was so funny and sweet to hear from above. He’d really get into it.
“I said couples only, Jimmy!” we’d hear him yell out. “You can’t skate alone!”
And this might have been when nobody else was down there! Kids and their imaginations. Sometimes John Maurice had friends over, of course, but a lot of times it was just JM himself, master of his very own roller rink. He took that commitment to whatever he did—sports, hobbies, school, then business—and always wanted to be the best at whatever he was doing. Now he’s married, to a wonderful woman named Jennifer, and has two great children, my grandkids Claire and John.
I hope he doesn’t think that story was too embarrassing. But he was so adorable! This is the stuff you love to remember about your kids.
Maggie Fixes the Movies
I love moving pictures. I’ve been going to “the show”—as I called it then—ever since I was a little kid when our little neighborhood theater ran cowboy movies [now commonly known as gay porn], comedies, and harmless family movies every Saturday and Sunday. Whether it was John Wayne riding his horse, Bing Crosby crooning a tune, Bette Davis not taking some sleazebucket’s guff [I hate when my mom swears, sorry, everybody], or Judy Garland looking all adorable, movies and movie stars gave me a lot of pleasure. As I got older and movies changed, I went along with some of the changes. You start out shocked, and then you get a little used to it, and then something else comes along to shock you. [Like Gwyneth Paltrow’s career before that weird goop Web site.] But movies have changed in other ways, too, besides the fact that nothing seems sacred anymore. Here’s how I’d fix the movie industry, if anybody bothered to listen [and why wouldn’t they] to one of its oldest, most steadfast supporters.
NO MORE BLOCKBUSTERS—I hate most of these blockbusters, movies about dinosaurs and space and the end of the world. What would I care for that? [Yeah James Cameron, you pathetic failure.]
Lana Turner, a favorite, who made movies when they were better.
QUIT IT WITH THE UNREAL CASTING—Now, I love indie movies because they’re real, and they’re true. You might see a couple of pretty girls, but at least they’re not being cast as grandmothers. In Hollywood, a movie about a family might have the gorgeous little teen, an adorable-looking mother [or in Bristol Palin’s case, an adorable-looking teen mother], and a grandma who looks thirty-five or forty and is still damn good-looking. Probably played by that attractive Heather Locklear. It’s so unreal how beautiful everyone is! That’s why I like English movies. Mothers look like mothers, and grandmas look like grandmas. Sometimes the lead isn’t even pretty! [Ouch, sorry, Brenda Blethyn. I guess that BAFTA award looks a little dull now.]
ONLY ANNETTE BENING CAN DO NUDITY—Have you ever noticed nine out of ten nude scenes are always women? Of course. What else is new? Not that I even want to see the guy full-frontal. I am not interested. [Especially in that sticky, stinky Ewan McGregor, who smells all European probly.] But there was a great movie from about twenty years ago called The Grifters, which had one scene with Annette Bening where she comes out and wow! How she ever did that scene I’ll never know. Now, I didn’t know who she was then, but she looked gorgeous. I thought she would have come out with a towel on, but I guess that’s what brings people in. It wouldn’t draw me to a movie. But she was so good in that, I couldn’t really take offense at it. [Someone’s getting a gift basket from Annette Bening!]
HOLLYWOOD MEN NEED A SHOWER—I know everybody ha
s to be a sex symbol now, especially the girls. But the guys all look like bums, like they’ve never washed their hair, or shaved, or cleaned and pressed any of their clothes. I can’t get involved with any of them. [Quit calling her, Matthew McConaughey. She will not take your phone calls.]
. . . AND KEEP THE MEN AWAY IF THEY’RE TOO HANDSOME—I don’t like a guy who loves attention from the girls, but isn’t nice to the girl he’s with. Good-looking guys to me are so in love with themselves; I’ve never been attracted to them. Robert Redford? Good-looking. Not interested. See, my idea of a guy is Robert Young. He looked so sweet and cute and nice. I loved that when he smiled, he got crinkles around his eyes. He was married to the same woman for a long time, too, which always influences me. When I was a young girl—when he was making movies, before his TV days on Father Knows Best and Marcus Welby, M.D.—Robert Young was the kind of guy I wanted to marry, and the kind of guy I wanted for my youngest daughter. I even said that once out loud to an audience of a panel show about dating that Kathy was participating in. I stood up and said to the host, “I really would love for Kathy to meet and marry a guy like Robert Young.” [I’ve heard this my whole life. Can a dead person take out a restraining order? My mother is stalking Robert Young’s dead body.] Well, that comment went over like a lead balloon, of course, because every girl in that room was probably into scrungy musicians. [Note to Eddie Vedder: my mother has renamed the grunge movement the scrungy movement.]
BELA LUGOSI: 1, TWILIGHT MOVIES: 0—I don’t even know what’s going on with those Twilight movies. I have no desire to see them. But they’re not my kind of movies anyway. I have an aversion to scary movies, ever since I saw Dracula as a kid. Besides, you can’t beat Bela Lugosi. How could you? [So you’re Team Bela, Mom?]
BETTER WRITING—Writers don’t get the credit they should in Hollywood. I don’t care how good an actor you are—and that goes for fancy award winners [Kathy Griffin, multi-Emmy winner] and pretty young things all the guys drool over [Kathy Griffin, Grammy nominee]—you can’t make a good scene out of bad writing. Directors are important, sure, but get a writer who can write, and you get a good movie. Although that Meryl Streep can do anything. [Amen.]
LESS TOILET HUMOR—[Uh-oh.] It’s not funny. A little of it goes a long way. What happened to satiric comedy that took you a second to get the joke? [Yawn.] Something that makes you go, “Oh!” and with a smile. Instead of “Disgusting! Let’s leave.” [The phrase I hear from an audience member if I’ve done my job.] Really, comedy doesn’t always have to be ya-ha-ha or go for the big guffaw. Look at Mae West. I had no interest in her as a kid—maybe because the Catholic Legion of Decency didn’t want us to see her pictures—but now I love her movies, because her double entendres are priceless! They’re funny and suggestive without aiming for the gutter.
I GUESS SEAN PENN IS OKAY—I hate to say this, but Sean Penn is one of my least favorite people, as well as one of Fox News’s. But you know what, I can’t deny the guy is a good actor. I care about him when he’s playing someone. Other times, when he’s playing somebody who’s not so nice, I can’t wait to see him get his comeuppance. [Dead Man Getting Comeuppance.] He can play almost anything. Really, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be bad, as much as it kills me to say that.
ENOUGH WITH THE LANGUAGE—I remember what a big deal it was when Clark Gable said, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn” in Gone With the Wind. How things have changed. It’s almost unusual now to see a movie without the “f” word all over the place, and without nude scenes. TV’s getting bad now, too, thanks to HBO. It’s coarsening America, and I don’t think kids can handle all this stuff. [Fuck those kids. They’ll be fine.]
KNOCK OFF THE UNNECESSARY SEX—Just knock it off. [Calm down, Mary.] In my day, you’d see the couple go in the bedroom, the door would close, and then you’d hear thunder and lightning, or see curtains blowing, and we all got the picture. [There was bad weather outside?] But now, we don’t always have to see the couple in some nasty embrace, and then linger, and linger. Okay, we know they’re kissing, we know they’re going to make whoopee, but I don’t want to see it. I feel dirty, like I’m looking through a keyhole at something I have no business looking at. You can show they’re in love with glances or hand-holding, or a nice hug. Cut that other stuff down, and then you’re fine. [Oh God, I don’t even know where to start.]
MAKE MORE MOVIES LIKE THE BUTCHER BOY—[WTF?] Sometimes you see a movie where you’re so drained because it’s so good, and everybody in the theater feels the same way, that nobody moves when it’s over. Everyone looks at one another, and it’s just silence. Or maybe you’ll hear a quiet “Wasn’t that great?” I just love that shared experience. Well, when Johnny and I saw The Butcher Boy, that one killed us. It’s this Irish movie about a poor wretch of a kid who has this rotten life, as hard as he tries to be upbeat about it. But his father’s a violent alcoholic and his mother commits suicide, and when the bitch of a neighbor spreads vicious rumors, he ends up murdering the neighbor and then gets sent to an asylum. Everyone was just wrecked afterward, drained. That movie was just wonderful! [The Catholic version of a musical comedy.]
Johnny
For a marriage that lasted as long as Johnny’s and mine did, and had as much mutual respect and love as it did, I will say this: we sure weren’t that generous to each other right out of the gate!
The first I knew of the Griffin family was Johnny’s older sister Mary, who I thought was the prettiest girl in Presentation parish. Johnny’s other sister, Peg, was cute, too—and perky and funny; she went on to raise five wonderful sons. But Mary was maybe the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. She had big blue eyes and softly wavy hair and a beautiful smile. She was a terrific dresser, too, and could wear hats, scarves, and jewelry with real style. We all adored her fashion sense. I didn’t know her well or anything, but I sure knew her looks. One day my sister Irene and I were outside our church when she alerted me to a young man coming out of the doors. “Oh Mag, see that guy?” she said. “That’s Johnny Griffin, that beautiful Mary Griffin’s brother!”
Naturally I wanted to see what he looked like. But what I saw was somebody short, with dark hair, and cute, but not drop-dead handsome like Robert Taylor, as I was kind of expecting from somebody related to the gorgeous Mary.
“Gee, you’d never know it,” I said. “The difference is amazing.”
Isn’t that terrible to say?
Well, when I finally met Johnny, it’s not as if he said anything all that sweet, either. I was working at the Form Fit Bra Factory in the returns department, my second job after graduating from high school, and it was a great experience. I worked in the back of the building, where we were left alone. It was just a boss, me, and a girl named Helen who did the repairs on the bras. Johnny, it turned out, worked in a separate department boxing up items for shipping, and one day he was visiting with Helen.
“Oh Johnny,” she said, “this is Margie Corbally, but you probably know that because she’s in your parish.”
I expected to get an “Oh sure, I’ve seen her around.” Instead, he looked at me and said, “No, I’ve never seen her before.”
Well, well, well! Suffice it to say, I was mighty offended by that, because while I was no Mary Griffin, I thought I was still pretty hot stuff. I’d certainly had enough of the guys from other departments come down to check me out when I first started working at Form Fit. But still, we were in the same parish! (Although he did live on the other side of Crawford Avenue, and in those days, a big street like that often kept neighborhoods from crossing over and getting to know other neighborhoods.)
Anyway, after that introduction, I thought, “God, he must really think he’s something.”
Young people are so nuts!
Later in our lives, I liked to tease my husband. “Johnny, you got off on the wrong foot with me!”
“I didn’t see you!” he insisted.
“Oh I know you,” I’d reply. “You wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of saying yo
u saw me.” Then we’d laugh about it.
But I needed convincing after that first encounter. Johnny’s friend Catherine Jameson was his big supporter to me. “Oh Margie, he’s a doll!” she kept saying. “So funny and so nice.”
Well, I certainly wasn’t agreeing with that. But what do you know, he was on the El with me every day going to work, and before long we got to talking a lot. He’d ask if he could walk me home from the El, which was only a few blocks. And, of course, it didn’t take me long to realize he was the funniest guy I’d been around in my life.
Johnny could see the humor in everything. Now, he didn’t tell jokes, and it wasn’t lampshade-on-your-head behavior. But he had a keen grasp of what was funny in every little thing around him. His observations were priceless. You know how Kathy’s humor is really all about what she notices in people? That was her father. He could make me laugh like nobody else.
He got along great with Irene and Rae when he met them through me, and one night he told us he could get his mother’s car and, if we liked, he could drive us all to the show on Saturday night and for a bite to eat afterward. We said “Fine,” and that was the start of the four of us hanging out and having a great time. We did that for quite a while, and it was really fun. One New Year’s Eve, Johnny got the car to take us to a big party at a tavern. We had a wonderful time, but the car wouldn’t start when we tried to leave. That meant walking home, and out of vanity I had chosen to wear high heels over what the cold weather dictated, which were galoshes. Well, Johnny knew how to wring fun out of even a bitterly cold, windy trudge home. We’d run into apartment buildings occasionally for warmth, and while the girls and I were dancing around to get the chills out, Johnny would ring about six buzzers on the box in the foyer. You’d hear people grumbling, “Who the hell’s down there! What are you doing?” We’d be ready to kill Johnny as we chased him outside, but we were laughing really hard, too.
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